Wednesday, February 23, 2011

It all started when my muse was chattering away to me earlier today. He was sharpening his claws after slicing his catnip. I suppose he was high on the stuff because he spilled the beans about a conspiracy I didn't even know I needed to know about. Ya know? He must not have realized he was telling me top secret information about the secret society he belongs to, but I was hanging on every word while he confirmed the hard, cold truth about Santa.

Yes, Santa. That fat, presumably jolly (the elves say he gets cranky as soon as the Halloween decorations go up each year) seemingly immortal (yet aged) man living at the North Pole. THAT Santa. You have no idea the intricate thread work that is the workforce behind that guy. Well, you're about to... because I'm going to tell you all about it.

First of all, you need to know that he DOES exist. But he's not one guy. *GASP* I know! There's the main guy... the one that's often imitated and portrayed as the guy we all know and love, but there's a hierarchy at play that we're not privy to.

The guy we know is basically a spokes person. He handles the PR, if you will. The real ones in charge are a collective group of Santas all dealing with their own individual age range and gender. Yeah, that's right... The Santa which handles your wishlist now is not the same Santa responsible for that Cabbage Patch Doll you received in 87.

There's a specific Santa for just about everything you can think of. Little Janey wants a doll, Jolly Fat Santa can handle that. 20-something Kate needs a job; Human Recources Santa is on it. Betty needs the gossiping bitch at her office to shut up and Karmic Santa smites her with laryngitis.

My stoned up little muse basically told me that Santa is everywhere. And the elves... this is the wicked part... live among us. When you're wishing your boyfriend would know how to give you an orgasm... Elf 56 will be mysteriously handing out pamphlets at the doctor's office. When you have a paper due in three hours, elf 97 will be the Barista who offers you a double shot of espresso. And when you have something bitchy to say, Elf Zero will say it for you... randomly... without you even having to be there. He takes his direct orders from this Santa (he handles single women between the ages of 20 and 40).

Face it ladies... our wish lists have changed. Sure we would like a new tube of mascara and some expensive creamy moisturizer in our stockings... but we're old enough to know how commerce works and where those kinds of gifts come from. The stuff we can't buy... the stuff we really need... that comes from a higher power and now I know how to get it.

So how do you get Santa to listen up? Write him a letter! He has an elf who's just chomping at the bit to help (the elf may even be one of your friends! I know! You have no idea how far this conspiracy goes!) Need help writing a letter? Use this as a template:

Dear Santa,

Please bitchslap Yolanda with a backhanded compliment.

You know why she deserves it.

Thank you.

Love,

Yours truly.

Don't be surprised if tomorrow somebody tells Yolanda their grandmother wears that same perfume and her hair looks so nice when she washes it. This somebody will be somebody who's authority Yolanda will be afraid to question so she'll just smile and take it. And you'll know in your heart that not only is Santa real... but he got your letter.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

One night when I was in 6th grade I was laying in bed and I started to cry. I was 12 years old, and I was convinced I was ugly. Kids at school were constantly telling me I was wrong because I was heavy, and all around my friends and classmates all seemed to be going out with somebody and I felt very left out.

I got out of bed and found comfort in my mother's arms. She couldn't believe these thoughts I was having. She pulled out my school photo from that year and said, "Look at her. You can't tell me the girl in this picture isn't beautiful." For the first time in my life... I felt pretty enough.

The next summer my future best friend moved in next door. An outcast himself, he was the only person my age who seemed to have enough confidence to stand up for himself. I didn't know it at the time, but that confidence took every ounce of self-love he could muster. Because, you know it's not easy being a closeted gay kid in a farming community. We spent hours on his front porch discussing why it's not important to let others bring you down and what it means to be your own person. For the first time in my life, I felt confident enough.

In 7th grade I entered an essay to Young Authors and it was accepted. I went to a conference and read my piece where it was received with applause and praise. For the first time in my life, I felt talented enough.

As a young adult I met a man who couldn't keep his hands off of me. He made me realize I'm sexy enough.

For a short while I performed amateur stand-up comedy at a local bar. They held a contest for it once a month. At first I bombed. Then I started to get a few laughs. I kept trying until one night I won second place. For the first time in my life... I felt funny enough.

But all this doesn't matter when somebody you love tells you again and again you're not good enough for them. Sure they say a lot of positive things, but when they denote those positive things with reason upon reason as to why you're not enough... you start to wonder to yourself.. Am I enough?

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

As I sit and listen to my friend play the guitar, in my fuzzy state of mind, I'm reminded of a time long ago. His fingers strum and play a tune I don't know... but that's mainly because he makes it up as he goes. We've found solace with each other because we can do such things in each other's company. I can write. He can play... together we'd make for a pretty cool couple of nomadic gypsies.

The whiskey warms my throat, and his tune warms my heart. This is a good thing, because the night is cold and the shed we sit in doesn't insulate us very well from the chill of the night air. We tried starting a fire, but it didn't work too well, and I'd be dead if we burned the place down. So we're left to the warmth of our friendship and the alcohol in our tummies.

The record player has stopped. Yes, we've shunned the modern sound of compact discs and have opted for the sounds of the 60's as it comes through like static from old and dusty 33's. A single candle and a lamp from the 70's lights the space. If it weren't for my laptop and my blackberry, we could be in a picture from decades ago.

We spend hours discussing nothing of real importance except our friendship... and it's times like this when I wouldn't want to be any other place in the world. Well... maybe someplace warmer... but can I keep the same company and the same music?

Friday, February 11, 2011

I can't sleep. Two hours ago I took some Tylenol PM, and I still can't hush my mind enough to get some shut eye. I hate when I get like this, because it seems no matter what I do, I'm destined to toss and turn until the sun comes up.

I know there are a lot of people who lay awake at night and worry about their problems. Jilted lovers dwell on the past. Worried housewives fret over the mortgage. Victims of the recession worry about where their next meal or paycheck will come from. What do I think about? Well... I guess you can lump me into the victims of the recession category.

I try to be positive. I try to think that I'll find something, and that I'll somehow get by. It always seems to work out that way, but I hate myself right now. I'm not thriving. I'm not really even living. I'm surviving... and sometimes it feels like I'm barely doing that.

I don't know what to do. I really don't. I'm at my wit's end here, folks, and I have no idea where to go from here. I need help. I hate admitting that, but it's true. I feel like I'm incapable of changing my life. Every time I try I fail.

Failure used to be a foreign concept to me. I was such a good student, and I always strove to make good choices... but that was so long ago. I look at that girl, and I don't see her anymore. It's like she doesn't exist. Because since then I've been reminded time and time again that it's not enough to just be me. It's not enough to just try. The world doesn't want me the way I am, and I don't know how to mold myself into the thing I need to be in order to thrive again. I don't even know where to begin.

This isn't a fair place we live in. We're all judged harshly by those who oppose us.

I refuse to cry. Maybe because I hear my grandmother's voice reminding me I'm not pretty when I cry... and lately being pretty feels like the only thing I have that the world approves of. Or maybe it's because whenever I cried on the phone with my father, he'd end the conversation and then not call again for a long time. All I know is when I cry, nobody seems to listen. So I keep my cool and try not to convert my impending tears into slicing words of anger. But, on the inside, I'm falling apart at the seams and it won't be long until the lump in my throat reduces me to tears.

Simply put I need to feel worthy again. I need to feel like I'm contributing something more than noise.

I found out last night that I'm not getting the job I had my heart set on. My most recent employer sank me with their reference. I'm not sure what was said, but if they stuck to legal topics, it shouldn't have been a bad reference. I was there everyday... EVERYDAY... on time, stayed my entire shift, and did a good job at what I was told to do. Their reason for firing me didn't hold up in court, so legally they fired me without probable cause. I just know in my heart that's not how the conversation went. And I can depend on them to keep on doing it. So now I have to be one of those person's who doesn't include their entire work history on an application because of unethical business practices. I hate being that person. I hate feeling like I have something to hide when I don't.

I also hate playing the part of the victim and this sinking feeling that this blog will be perceived as a pity party. Really, I'm just unloading in the hopes that sleep will find me. Maybe now that I've gotten some of this off my chest I can roll over and dream an angry dream. Because that's how I feel... angry, upset, and, unfortunately, defeated.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke you'll find Bev, a morbidly obese woman who's age is old but not specific. She has an oxygen tank next to her recliner, that doesn't stop her from lighting up another menthol 100. Her lipstick is the same shade she's worn since her early 20's, and, as usual, it's the only make up splayed across her face.

She has a husky laugh as she muses with the celebrity gossip on her television. She gave up on keeping up with the real news when she realized Bill O'Reilly was driving her insane. Her laughter turns into a coughing fit as Roz opens the door.

"I got us another carton." She says as she throws a bag of groceries on the counter. One of their several cats moves out of the way just in time to save himself from being bludgeoned by the heavy canvas tote. Bev labors herself to get out of her recliner, and once out of it, she admires the dent her ginormous rear end has put in the cushion. She waddles to the kitchen to help Roz unload the groceries, but by the time she gets there, Roz has already put away the Ritz crackers and Olive Oil. All that's left of her purchases are the trashy celebrity magazines in the bottom of the tote. Bev snatches them up with the quickness and giggles in delight.

Roz smiles as she sees she's brought a smile to her best friend's face. As Bev waddles back to her chair and her remote control, Roz pours herself her fifth glass of wine for the day. She opens her pill box and muses how her medications interact with her wine selection perfectly. Within half an hour, she'll be on cloud nine. She floats into the living room, her delicate frame (made more delicate with the addition of osteoporosis) cushioning itself against a tacky, animal print, throw pillow.

They spend their evening chain smoking, drinking wine, and gossiping about people they don't know. When they both pass out without leaving their perspective spots in front of the television, their dreams collide with one another.

They are young again, and like now, they are outcast from society. They're at a school dance, and Roz is spiking the punch while Bev dances with other girls' boyfriends. By the end of the night they're kicked out and giggling at their own morbid jokes while sharing a smoke behind the bleachers. They form a master plan and when the DJ announces "Last Dance" they turn on the hose and spray their classmates in their formal dresses. Together they cackle loudly.

The morning light stirs the cats' hungry stomachs, but Bev and Roz don't move. Their friendship has lasted to the end, and their retirement plan served them well.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Yup, that's right... we're going to have a conversation about something I'm sure we all have (even nuns). SEX DREAMS!

Gotta love it! I've always been a huge dreamer. Some people say they don't dream, or, if they do, they don't remember their dreams. Some people only dream in black and white. Others dream like they're watching them selves while some dream like they're living in the dream. My dreams are always in color, always fast paced, and always from my point of view. I never know what's going on in them, and it's usually not until I wake up that I can make any sense of them.

I'm a big fan of dream interpretation. Did you know that one of the most common dreams had among the masses is the dream where your teeth are falling out, crumbling or rotting? A literal interpretation would suggest it's time to go to the dentist. But that's not the case at all... you're teeth are probably just fine. It's actually suggested that dreaming about this is indicative of insecurities surrounding how you feel others perceive you. Weird, huh?

Another common dream is the one where you're being chased. I have this one often. I don't have it where I'm literally running and somebody is behind me, but rather I'm trying to outsmart somebody to reach a goal before they do. Sometimes, though, they are actually after me. These dreams are reflections of how you deal with stress in your life. You either run from it or try to outwit it. The thing your running from is either an aspect of yourself, or a stressor that's in your current life.

The Dream Dictionary has been helping me decode my dreams for years. I now know when I dream about my grandparent's house (which I can't say anymore since my uncle's step-daughter now lives there... ugh) or the house I grew up in it means I'm dreaming about my own psyche and different parts of it. When I was dreaming (almost every night) about the house shifting, changing and growing, I was going through my own personal changes and changes in my belief structure.

So, since the meaning of a dream is rarely literal, it's safe to assume that a sex dream really doesn't mean that you want to have sex with that person. Furthermore it also probably doesn't indicate that you need more sex in your life (although it could). In order to understand your sex dream you need to break it down... look at all of the details and figure it out from there. More often than not it's a sign of self completion. You're probably very secure with yourself and where you're at, but there's one or two more aspects of your character you'd like to finalize. To figure out what these are, look at the partner in your dream. Whatever aspects they have are the aspects you want or need to feel like the complete version of yourself.

Despite whatever the meaning might be, sex dreams are hot. Scratch that... they're hawt. I have to fan myself just thinking about the one I had the other night. It was with the guy I was totally into in high school. I used to dream about him all the time (you know, back when I was younger and less experienced with men). He's been absent in my dreams for a while, but I do enjoy it when he stops by for a visit... because more often than not it turns into a sex dream. He's married in real life now, but that doesn't mean I can't think naughty thoughts about him... right?

I've always wondered if the people we dream about are also having the same dream about us. I especially think this when the dream is vivid and feels so real that when we wake up we have to remind ourselves that it didn't just happen. So... if my high school crush is reading this and saying to himself "oh my god, she had that dream too?" let me know... or don't. The mystery is half of what makes dreaming awesome.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

I couldn't let Groundhog's Day pass by and not acknowledge it. As most people who know me know, it's my late grandfather's favorite holiday. The reason? It requires less fuss than any other holiday.

This year, I won't be waking up to view my shadow in my own burrow. This post is being post dated, because I'm spending a few days at a friend's house. So, as I write this, I have no idea what the gruondhog's prediction will be. Knowing the weatherman's prediction of wintery, blizzardy, icy shit storm... I can't imagine winter ending any sooner than it's supposed to. I predict that the ground hog will predict a much longer, much colder, much more miserable winter.

On Groundhog's day, I will have a second leg of a job interview to go to in the morning. Based on the prediction of snow and ice we're supposed to have, I will have a hell of a time to get my car defosted and actually getting to the interview. The job I'm interviewing for, however, is the kind of job that you have to be at, rain or shine, hot or cold. So, there really shouldn't be any excuse for me to miss the interview. In the real world, there are no snow days.

So as I prepare myself for a very important Groundhog's Day, I keep the memory of my grandfather in my heart. Even though it was his favorite day, he never viewed it as an excuse for a day off or a reason to slack off. I'll do whatever I have to do that day, I won't complain and I won't make a fuss out of anything. Because, that's the way my grandfather did things.